


The Rescue

by Taransay



Series: The Wolves of Jorrvaskr [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6578818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taransay/pseuds/Taransay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve been hired to rescue a farmer from Chillwind Depths, but as you proceed with your mission doubt begins to set in on whether you are worthy of being Harbinger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I.

Surrounded by water, on a raised bit of ground, you find a body.

'Oh no,’ Vilkas mutters, rushes forward.

You bend down next to where Vilkas is crouching, and gently turn the face towards you.

A man, his blue eyes still open, his mouth forever set in a straight line. There’s a hole that’s been smashed into the top right hand side of his skull. Blood clogs strands of his wet, wheat coloured hair.

Your hands shake, you hold your breath and look towards Vilkas who takes the corpse’s arms and crosses them across the body.

'Peace with you, brother,’ Vilkas says.

Too late. Those words whizz like an arrow through your mind. You were too late.

It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know this man. It’s not the point. The companions were hired to -

'It’s not him,’ Vilkas says. He sniffs, stands up and walk over to the rickety, worn table near to the body. 'It’s not Engar.’

You wonder how Vilkas could know this.

'Wolf’s instinct.’ Vilkas folds his arms across his chest and leans against the table. 'Engar’s a farmer. Why would he wear leather armour? Besides,’ he tilts his head to one side. 'When his wife came to Jorrvaskr I could smell Engar on her clothes. He doesn’t smell like Engar.’

A lumpy, brown slab of Horker loaf sits on the table which Vilkas stashes with the rest of his provisions. Then he throws to you a bottle of 'Potion of Plentiful Healing’. He takes another look at the unknown man.

'Poor whelp. Should stay alert, don’t fancy bumping into whoever cracked the hole in his head.’ 

Relief fills you at knowing that this body doesn’t belong to the one you were hired to rescue. Yet at the same time the relief is tinged with sadness. Somewhere out in the world, someone is wondering what happened to this man. They will never know.

Chillwind Depths lives up to its name. Like hungry, wailing wolves the wind rattles up and down the narrow cave passageways. You shiver, and not only because you are cold.

You follow a sodden passageway that veers to the left, and brush aside roots that grow down from the ceiling and tangle with your hair. Vilkas, his sword already drawn, follows close behind.

Every step you take your boots squelch as you traipse through cold, ankle-deep water.

The narrow passageways of Chillwind Depths twist and turn and split at various parts. Twice you and Vilkas find yourselves staring at the wall of a dead end.

You stop. In the darkness you can hear the drip, drip, drip of water. It is accompanied by the thudding of your heart and sudden breathless gasps.

'Harbinger?’ Vilkas calls your name.

The walls are creeping closer. The earth is folding down on you.

You’ve never experienced claustrophobia before, but here, in these slender corridors in the bowls of the earth, you wish for nothing other than to see the sky again.

You feel Vilkas’ arm on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. 'I don’t like it either. The quicker we’re out of here the better.’ He pushes you forwards.

The trail you follows widens a little, but not by much.

You find white strands, as thin as silk, beginning to cover the glistening with damp, passageway walls. Vilkas touches it, wrinkles his brow, and tries to wipe the white threads from his gauntleted hands. He sniffs the air. 'Got a feeling there’s trouble ahead.’

All you can do is move forwards. So with Vilkas’ warning in mind, you draw your blade, trying to pull it out of its sheath whilst making as little noise as possible.

The thread becomes more abundant the further down the corridor you go until you reach an opening covered in the sticky stuff.

You cut it aside, step forwards and are relieved to find that the corridor opens out into a large area with a vaulted ceiling.

It’s as if you have walked into one giant cocoon. Web covers all surfaces, to the point that it’s hard to see any of the rock beneath it. It hangs from the ceiling like gossamer rope, tangled around tree roots and clods of earth.

You stare at the web sacks suspended from the cave roof, wondering what poor sods have been imprisoned within. Your gaze shifts up to the ceiling and it is returned by the ones who have been spinning the webs.

With hundreds of eyes, they look down at you from where they hang in their silken palace.

'Ah,’ Vilkas says. 'Good job Farkas isn’t here.’


	2. Part II.

The spiders descend from the ceiling like dancers suspended from rope. For a second you forget what they are, and standing still, mouth agape, you watch them twirl and twitch in the air before landing silently around Vilkas and you.

They watch you with eyes like droplets of ink arranged on a carapace-like skull.

Their mouths, complimented by two jutting incisors covered in barbs, snap open and closed. They scuttle forwards on legs crowned with needle thin hairs. Bigger than a child, you suspect they’d have no problem bringing down a horse.

Revulsion hits you like a wave upon the rocks.

‘Harbinger…’

The Frostbite spiders sway on their spindly legs. A synchronised dance before dinner. They flex their fangs together and emit a clicking sound.

'Harbinger.’

The noise creeps up your spine, enters your head and freezes your brain. Your mind pulsates. There’s a pain coming from the front of your skull, just above your eyes. Like someone has just punched an icicle through the middle of your forehead.

The world slows.

In a mass of skittering bodies, the spiders fold back onto their four back legs and spring forwards.

'Harbinger!’

The word enters your head. You see the letters arrange themselves in your mind. They give off a warm fuzzy glow that dulls the headache to a soft twang.

You raise a hand.

You speak the word.

Time rights itself.

A whoosh of flame emits from the centre of your palm. You cup it in your hand, comforted by the warm glow that infiltrates your gloved fingers.

Three spiders advance on Vilkas.

You unleash the fire upon them. It unfurls from the palm of your hand, uncurling like a fiery whip.

Like dragon’s breath, the continuous blast sends the three spiders spinning simultaneously through the air. They land on their backs, a hissing sound of steam emitting from their burnt crusts.

Vilkas’ sword connects with the backend of a spider. He pushes the sword into its body with a crunch, twists the handle and the spider squelches. Then he unsheathes the blade, swings it, and splatters the walls and the white cocoons in the gooey grey and brown and purple entrails of the spider’s innards.

A force hits you in the back. It feels like a horse has careered into you. Air is walloped out of your lungs.

The fire slips from your fingers. The word becomes lost in your head, and the flames die. You trip forwards, arms flailing, grasping at the air.

Your kneecaps crack as you hit the floor. Clanging to the ground, your sword falls out of reach.

You try to scrabble forward, reach out for the ground in front of you, but something yanks you back, wrestles with you , tries to shake you up and down.

If you could…

Reaching out with your right hand, the tip of your finger just brushes against the end of the sword handle.

Resigned to the fact that you can’t get your sword, you reach downward. Your fingers touch the shell-like structure of a spider leg. Its hair pricks your skin, and you tremble in disgust.

The beast paws at your back. You can hear the tips of its legs scraping at your armour. Goosebumps swell on your arms. You grit your teeth. The spider is fear incarnate, pricking at your spine.

You try to twist in its grip, grunt at the effort. And as you manage to move your legs from beneath you, you notice there’s a reassuring weight, just up from your right boot.

The leather sheaf of the dagger strapped to your leg, digs into you, like it wishes to remind you of its presence.

You yank it free, and fingers tight around the hilt of the weapon, you tear one of the spider’s legs away.

'Off her!’

It sounds as if the air is being sliced in half, as Vilkas, blade arcing, leaps past you.

For a second, you see what lurks behind the human facade. He’s like a rabid wolf, Hircine’s own, lunging at your assailant with his teeth bared.

A growl comes from the back of Vilkas’ throat. He rips the spider from you. Gives it a heavy kick and brings down his sword upon its body, cleaving it in two like a giant’s club shattering a human skull.

Lying in two parts, it spasms, twitching legs curled inwards.

The Nord gives a contented grunt, holds out his hand. Beneath the grime, war paint and stubble you can see that one side of his lip curls upwards.

'Dragons, spiders,’ Vilkas says. 'By Ysgramor, what next? Story fodder for the campfire back at Jorrvaskr, at least.’

He pulls you up and his lips finally part into a smile.

'You can talk about the dragon. I’ll talk about the spiders,’ he says. His grip on your hand tightens. 'If I can make Farkas tremble, that’ll be a sight. Big bear that he is.’

You see it move, but it’s too late.

One last spider.

One last spider that tears itself away from parts of its insides spilled upon the floor. It leaves a leg behind as it lurches forwards.

You try to shout a warning, but it comes too late. And just as you latch onto Vilkas, the spider’s fangs penetrate the top half of his arm.

It tears through the grubby binding that cover Vilkas’ arm.

Your fingers clamp around the hilt of the dagger. You don’t think, you don’t aim. You rely on instincts alone, and throw.

The spider’s teeth splits Vilkas’ flesh.

Blood springs, bubbling out like a freshly sprung fountain.

The dagger hits the spider. Right between the eyes.

It falls to the ground.

As does Vilkas.


	3. Part III.

Vilkas plunges to his knees, his hand opens and his sword drops to the rocky floor. The blade clangs as it hits the ground. The noise echoes.

Your hand is still in the air, paused from the moment you threw the dagger.

At first you are reluctant to bend down to him. Not knowing what to do. Vilkas is proud. You don’t want him to push you away, as if you’re some fussy mother hen.

The hesitation doesn’t last long.

His back is bent. His head is bowed. Strands of his dirty chestnut hair straggle his face.

You grab hold of his left hand.

Blood dribbles down from the wound and splatters his gauntlets red.

His blooded fingers slip against yours. You call his name, squeeze his hand.

Slender strips of light filter in from tiny gaps in the chasm ceiling. Wisps of web float on the breeze like silken drapes. You’re reminded of the world above.

You want to quit this mission. Leave this place. Now. Every part of your brain screams at you to do this. You want to drag Vilkas to the surface where the sun will nourish you both and give you the light you need to tend to Vilkas’ injury. 

Again, you squeeze Vilkas’ hand, waiting for a response.

Head still bowed, you hear him draw breath. His chest rattles, he coughs, hacks up phlegm and spits it out.

Grabbing a hold of his shoulder, you give him a soft shake.

His head snaps up, and as if he has only just become aware of your company, he turns his head. Through bedraggled stings of hair, Vilkas glowers at you.

No longer are his eyes grey like the snow clouds that shroud the mountains at the Throat of the World. Instead they are as yellow as the Last Seed sun and as fierce as flame.

His eyes cut through you, searing your soul like a blast of arctic of wind. You swallow hard, steady your grip and keep your hand on Vilkas’ shoulder.

The glare feels familiar, and you realise why. If Hircine were unmasked, this is the look he would give you.

Covering the unease you feel with a firm voice, you call his name. Finally, Vilkas squeezes your hand.

Yellow eyes dilute back to grey. You wonder, how far Vilkas was from letting his wolfish nature take form?

Vilkas wipes his face with a trembling hand, smearing blood across his cheeks, bottom lip and beneath his nose. He turns away from you.

You pull out potion bottles, ointment and salves, and lie them on the floor. You circle Vilkas, take a hold of his arm.

‘I’m fine,’ he says, and snatches his arm from your reach.

It’s as you thought. Vilkas is proud.

His hand covers the bite. Blood oozes through his fingers, but all you can do is sit, your hand clutching a bottle of ointment that shimmers a reddish glow.

Uncomfortable silence descends, the type you get when someone laughs loud in a chapel.

'You want to help, make me a dressing. Stem the flow.’

You tell him you want to more than help. You want to examine the bite. Has he been poisoned? You could build a fire, warm a blade, cauterise the wound.

Vilkas shakes his head. He isn’t just proud, he’s stubborn.

'No time,’ he says. 'We’ll do it later, when we’re back out in the open and out of here.’

After a pause he says, 'I feel… uneasy, like Ysgramor’s watchful gaze is blind in this place.’

From the bag around your waist, you full out a piece of grey gauze. You tear strips from it and wind it around your hand.

Vilkas wears wraps upon the upper part of his arm, to cover the flesh that can’t be reached by his gauntlets. These are now soaked through, like a sponge left in a tub for too long. They’re heavy and damp in your hands and make a splattering sound when you drop them to the floor.

There are two puncture wounds on Vilkas arms. Both an angry red, like two mouths open in a permanent scream.

You don’t ask whether it hurts. There’s no point. You can see the answer for yourself, and Vilkas isn’t one for small talk. Particularly now. So you stay silent.

There’s a cork in the top of the salve bottle. You cap your mouth over the top, pull the cork out between your teeth, and then spit it across the cave so that it hits an egg sack and dangles and spins from a strand of web.

As you pour the solution over Vilkas’ arm, it bubbles and hisses as it washes over the puncture wounds.

Vilkas grits his teeth. Clenches his hands into fists.

With an extra bit of gauze you dab at the holes and then apply the bandage.

'I appreciate this,’ the Nord says. 'I would be able to do it myself, if it weren’t in such a place.’

You roll your eyes, tell him that you don’t mind seeing to his wounds. After all, he’s helped you out many times.

You wrap the gauze, pull it tight.

Vilkas’ breathing is heavy. His breath brushes your face. It’s warm, smells of ale. You stop winding the bandage, hold it in place, and turn your head.

His face is close to yours.

The relics of battle fleck his face. Welts and scars that create craters and gorges in his skin.

'Very impressive,’ Vilkas says, in a rough whisper. 'The fire. I liked the bit where they turned crispy and died. Reminds me of when Skjor tried to cook.’ A smirk creeps across his face.

You stare at each other. With your thumb, you slowly wipe away the smudges of blood on his face.

'Harbinger,’ he says. You lean forwards, waiting for his next words.

Vilkas takes your hand from his face. Presses his thumb into the palm of your hand.

You breathe deep, smell sweat and horse and damp.

From somewhere further back in the caves, a drop of water hits a puddle and creates a splattering noise that ricochets. 

'The farmer. Engar. He’s here, somewhere.’

He lets your hand drop and scrambles to his feet.

The blood has already come to the surface of the bandage.


	4. Part IV.

You’re going to drown.

In front, behind, left and right, there’s nothing but inky darkness.

As you stretch your hands out in front of you, they disappear in the suffocating murkiness. As for Vilkas, perhaps even the Nine don’t know where he is.

You’ve tried to find the surface, but your head has already hit rock, and now up might be down. Left might be right. You might even be swimming back the way you came.

Several electrical currents of panic puncture your brain. If you could just find the way you’ve come. If you could just find a pocket of air.

Sand and pebbles and weed brush your fingertips. You’ve gone too far down and now your lungs feel like they are full of fire and are about to explode. Your eyes bulge in their sockets.

Swimming stops being swimming and becomes flailing. You brandish your arms around, your actions made sluggish by the water. You imagine Hircine standing at the edge, his wolf companions lapping at the water. They wait for you to die.

Then one of the Nine, or some other Daedric Prince, reaches out for you.

Their hand latches around your wrist. They drag you out of the water and then through tunnels where the water is shallower but just as cold.

You feel solid ground beneath your body and you clutch out it with your hands, digging your fingers into the rocky surface.

Cold air floods your lungs. They squeeze together and you cough and gasp and wretch forwards to bring up water.

'By the Nine,’ Vilkas says, panting. He runs a hand through his knotted hair and brushes water from the fur around his chest plate. 'Didn’t think we were ever going to surface.’

His other hand is still latched around your wrist.

Vilkas clears his throat.

You flex your fingers.

Droplets of water hang off his nose and stubbled chin and rest on his eyelashes. His hair, sodden and dripping, sticks to his grubby skin.

At first your words become stuck in your throat, but when you manage to get them out you thank the Nord for his assistance.

'Get lost, wolf pup?’ There’s no malice in his voice. He shakes his head like a canine and sends droplets of water into the air. 'Me too,’ he says. 'Hope there aren’t many more passageways like that. ’

You point out to Vilkas that once the mission is complete you might have to come back this way.

He juts out his chin, says, 'We’ll deal with that matter when we come to it.’

There’s the constant sound of running water, and the splashes your feet make as you walk upstream.

The wind moans.

The weight of your amour and your wet clothes cause you to walk hunched. Clumps of hair stick to your face. Your muscles tremble uncontrollable. You clench your teeth, hug yourself. It feels like you have been buried alive in the snow.

Vilkas pats your shoulder.

The cave walls glow blue and green like apothecary bottles illuminated by potions. Now and then you come across a hole in the cave roof that allows light to flood the tunnel.

Shale and gravel crunch beneath your feet.

Spiders aren’t the only creatures who inhabit Chillwind Depths.

You’ve read about them in books, but this is the first time you’ve seen one.

You hold your breath, peer around a corner.

'Falmer,’ Vilkas breathes as one stalks past.

Their sun starved skin is like bleached bone. Their noses have collapsed into their faces and replaced by two slits, giving them a slight reptilian appearance.

There’s little to hint of their Mer heritage. Most if it has been drowned out of them from their time underground. Beaten out of them by the Dwemer who betrayed them.

One stops, sniffs the air.

Vilkas’ draws close to you, his mouth inches from your ear. His warm breath causes your wet skin to prickle.

'They’re blind,’ he whispers. 'But only a fool would underestimate them. Take heed Harbinger. They’re formidable opponents. ’

The Falmer’s head twitches from side to side. It grinds its teeth, then turns and heads back up the way it came.

'We should creep up on them,’ Vilkas says. 'Take each one out without fuss.’

You nod. It’s impossible to tell how many Falmer lurk ahead. Taking each one out in secret will ensure no alarm is raised.

Vilkas replaces his sword with the bow off his back. He pulls an arrow from the quiver, and sets it against the string. Then, back and knees bent, little by little he places one foot in front of the other. Taking hold of you dagger, you mimic him, and follow.

It’s how you proceed through the tunnels of Chillwind Depths. A hunting party who bides their time, knowing that to be hasty could could bring death swiftly to your door. You watch the back, Vilkas leads.

Your heart quakes. You try to steady your breathing. Spiders you can deal with. They’re ugly to look at but they’re not subtle. You can read their moves before they perform them. But you’ve never fought Falmer. You’re curious and wary to see how they manage with no sight.

A bubbling spring froths to the left of you.

You walk into Vilkas’ back.

'Careful.’ he says, steadying you. 'Do not want to walk into that.’

Up ahead is an entrance. It is accompanied by a fence either side, made from tree bark woven tightly together. Axes are propped up against it.

The Nord points, and you see, in between the fences there’s a pressure pad for a trap.

'We’ll have to deactivate it before we go through,’ Vilkas says. 'Be ready, the noise from the trap will probably bring them to us.’

He brings up his bow, narrows his eyes.

Why waste an arrow and alert them when you can use your power? You grab hold of Vilkas’ arm. Tell him to wait. Tell him to watch.

With your eyes closed you submerge yourself in the darkness inside your head. You can hear the crackle of fire from a torch up ahead. You drown out the noise by listening to the drumbeat of your heart.

It’s a word the Greybeards gave you. Therefore it’s one you treasure.

You drag the letters into your mind. You arrange them in the darkness, and when all is in order you speak the word and you become the wind.

The word smudges together.

Your body jolts forwards. It’s like taking one giant step, though in reality you’re taking many but at increased speed.

The air roars in your ears.

In one blink, you’re the other side of the trap.

You want, need to see Vilkas’ reaction. If setting fire to the spiders impressed him, what will his reaction be to this? The Nord isn’t the easiest to impress. Any compliments off him feels like receiving a set of armour made of Ebony.

A smile crosses your face. Your stomach summersaults.

In the time you have spent with Vilkas, you find yourself clinging to his words, recalling them on cold evenings.

Thinking about his voice causes warmth to run through your body, though you aren’t sure why.

There’s one wooden lever in the wall. Presuming it controls the trap, you pull it.

The trap deactivates with a clunk. You turn, are about to call Vilkas through, but come face to face with a Falmer.

It stares at you through its milky and useless eyes.

It sniffs the air.

It sneers.

Like the lightning currently winding up the staff it’s holding, adrenaline surges through your body.

You reach out for the Falmer, wrap your hands around its neck, and smash its head against the wall.

'I am beginning to think there is nothing our Harbinger cannot do,’ Vilkas says, looking at the limp body you still clutch.

Vilkas holds his wounded arm. His shoulders sag. You don’t ask if he is alright because you know that he won’t tell you the truth. He’ll tell you that the only thing that’s important is the mission. That he’ll stop and notice his cuts and sores once Engar is safe.

So you smirk. Pretend not to notice the sweat on his brow, the way he squeezes his hands together to stop the trembles. Fearful that to notice, would insult him.

Instead you joke in the darkness, your whispering voice telling him you can do most things, apart from breathe under water.

The Falmer smells musty, like how the dirt smells after a storm. The twang of blood fills your nostrils and you look down at the dead creature’s face.

Its eyes are still open. They’re the colour of soured milk.

You wonder what goes on in that head of theirs, if they ever think about their ancestors. Are they intelligent enough to recall their history? Do the memories of their heritage resonate through their decaying minds? Do they recall the touch of snow?

The Falmer’s body twitches, slips from your fingers, and collides with a decorative pot.

The pot shatters into pieces.

Vilkas sucks in air, his nostrils flare like a warhorse. 'That’s done it,’ he says. He puts away his bow, unsheathes his sword and gives you a level gaze.

You hear hurried footfalls in the corridors beyond the room.

No point in hiding.

They’ll find you.

They’re blind.

But they’ll find you.

You snatch the mage’s staff from the dead Falmer’s hands.

With both hands holding his broad sword, Vilkas nudges you with his arm. 'Don’t worry,’ he says, 'I have your back.’

There’s confidence in his voice and it flows into you.

You both charge out of the room.

You slay whatever Falmer you find in the corridors. Vilkas alternates between his sword and his bow. Sometimes you see him use an arrow as a makeshift dagger.

One Falmer comes at you. The torchlight glints off the axe blade. The light in the caves make them look like wraiths.

You dodge sideways, the Falmir’s axe blade drives into the wall, snagging a few strands of your hair.

For a second you think you’re going to die. Then you think, if you’re going to die you don’t want it to be here. Not buried underground with the Betrayed.

The comforting weight in your hand reminds you what you’re holding, and you pull back the mage’s staff, push it up with such a force under the Falmer’s chin that it snaps his head backwards.

An arrow whizzes by you, nicking the armour on your arm. You’re about to send a bolt of lightning at the archer, when Vilkas’ retaliates and takes the archer out with an arrow of his own.

There’s blood on the Nord’s face. He grins at you, and you reply by blasting the Falmer creeping up on him with a bolt of lightning that crackles through the air.

The main chamber of Chillwind Depths is bigger than the one you found the Frostbite spiders in.

But before you can look around fully, more Falmer descend upon you.

They’re accompanied by large insects with black and purple casing.

'Charus!’ Vilkas shouts above the clatter of blade meeting blade and the plink of arrows hitting armour or the rocky ground. 'Watch out for their pincers.’

You stick your sword through one. Then when it’s on the ground you pin it down by treading on it and pull your weapon free.

'Stick together,’ Vilkas says, his breathing laboured. You’re about to ask if he is okay when you hear it.

'Help!’

Vilkas’ shoots you a look. 'Engar,’ he pants.

You nod, turn away from Vilkas, trying to pinpoint where the voice came from.

'Stick close to me,’ Vilkas says.

'Help me!’

You can’t help yourself. You are driven forwards by that cry for help, and like following a shaft of light in the dark, you trail after the echoes of the voice.

'Stay close!’

You hear the drumbeats in your head. Automatically, your arm swings your sword and you fell any Falmer that get in the way.

Two Falmer drag the farmer through the water and force him onto his knees. His hands and feet are bound.

You know it’s too late, that you’ll never get to them in time.

An arrow pierces the chest of the Falmer on the right.

The Falmer on the left pulls out a dagger.

Engar’s eyes roll back into his head. He falls face first into the water. A raw bloody cut, like a crooked smile, slashed across his throat.


	5. Dark Night of the Soul.

It’s your fault.

One million thoughts pummel your brain. You pace the floor, head bowed.

You wanted to quit the mission, wanted to escape the cave and find refuge in the world above. A refuge Engar will no longer have.

Engar is dead.

Because of you.

The guilt digs its claws into you, rips apart your conscience.

Do you think you can continue being Harbinger? You have failed.

'Harbinger.’

Vilkas’ voice penetrates your thoughts. His voice brings you no comfort. You expect barbed words, comments blighted by sarcasm. He doubted you from the moment you entered Jorrvaskr. He had every right to.

'Harbinger.’

A memory scratches your mind. The day you returned to Jorrvaskr to find Kodlack dead. Vilkas stood in the doorway of the mead hall, both hands on his hips, chin jutted outwards, legs planted wide. He’d barred your entrance and interrogated you. With every answer you’d given his eyes had bulged, his lips had curled, and through bared teeth he’d growled, 'I hope it was important, because it means you weren’t here to defend him.’

The sinking feeling you’d felt that day, returns to you. Like your stomach has just fallen through your body. As if you have been standing on the edge of a cliff and someone has just pushed you over. And as you flail and fall you realise, there is no stopping your descent.

Kodlack. Now Engar. Both dead. Because of you.

There’s a lump at the back of your throat. You can’t dislodge it.

When Vilkas speaks again he doesn’t call you by your title. Instead he calls your name. His voice is followed by what sounds like someone dumping their armour into a pile on the floor.

You turn, expecting to see disappointment on his face. But, you don’t see that. In fact, you don’t see his face at all.

Vilkas lies face down on the bloodstained floor.

* * *

Many holes piece the cave ceiling, allowing shafts of dusty light to slant downwards. They offer you a glimpse at the world of the living. It’s a torment when you know you must remain in the underworld.

You’ve stripped Vilkas of his armour and dragged him to a large flat stone at the centre of the room.

The stone is sprayed with blood. Some old and faded, other splatters vivid and fresh like droplets of paint from the end of an artist’s brush. It serves as a grizzly examination table, but Vilkas isn’t conscious enough to protest.

His chest rises and falls in quick sporadic movements. Like a slaughter fish out of water, he opens his mouth, gulps in air, and then tries to take in more.

You clench your hands into tight fists, so that your fingernails dig into the flesh of your palm. You feel useless. You’re paralysed by uncertainty. But Vilkas depends on you and that is enough to drive you forwards. So you suck in air through your nostrils, and chew your lip as your fingers fumble across Vilkas’ neck.

Vilkas’ pulse, like his breathing, is erratic.

You cut open his greying, threadbare shirt with your knife. Pull away the sleeves with trembling hands, and yank off the bandage you tied around Vilkas’ arm.

You don’t have to see the wound to know what’s wrong. The answer careered into you like a bolt from a crossbow when you saw Vilkas on the floor.

The puncture marks from the spider’s fangs stare at you like the eyeless gaze of a draugr’s face. Your stomach lurches and you lean backwards.

You curse the Nord for his stubbornness, for his pride, but you curse yourself more for not demanding to see his wounds. You curse until you are not sure what else to say, and then you pray for some god to aid you, hoping that your voice isn’t buried by the ground above you.

The skin around the spider bite is the shade of a bruised apple. Around it a network of veins have become visible through Vilkas’ thick skin, and as you empty your bag of supplies onto the slab of rock, you wonder, how much of the spider venom has been pumped into the Nord’s body.

A variety of potions lie in front of you. They glow in their glass bottles like mini, multicoloured lanterns, casting eldritch light onto Vilkas’ wax skin.

You scrabble to examine each bottle. The potions inside roll and tumble and slosh about.

Philter of Alteration, Solution of Strength, Conjurer’s Elixir, you have a potion for nearly everything. Some you don’t even need, but kept because you never know when you might need coin.

There’s a tingling in your chest as you go through all your potions. You clench your jaw. Everything, everything but the one you need.

You snatch up the potion that Vilkas gave you when you first entered the cave. Ironic that he had been the one to pick it up, not knowing that he’d be the one to need it.

The stone scrapes your arms as you clamber onto the alter and position yourself next to the Nord. Once seated, you pull Vilkas into your arms.

Vilkas flops in your embrace. His head rolls backwards, his arms are heavy weights.

You pull the cork from the bottle of 'Potion of Plentiful Healing’, rest Vilkas against your chest, and use your free hand to cup his chin.

He groans as you attempt to open his mouth.

With the lip of the bottle, you force his jaws apart, hear the clatter of his teeth against glass as he tries to snap his mouth shut. Hoping that he doesn’t choke, you force the liquid down his throat.

Vilkas coughs and splutters. For a second his head snaps up. He lurches in your arms, and potion oozes out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin.

There’s an ache at the back of your throat. You rub his back, tell him that you are here and that his brother awaits him back at Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas sways before slumping back into your arms. His eyes roll back into his head.

You urge him to drink the potion.

* * *

The sunlight is giving up on you.

The cavern darkens, and you look up at the ceiling, watching the shafts as they fade.

Your lips are dry, and your breath catches in the back of the throat.

Vilkas lies in your arms, a heavy weight that reminds you of your failure.

Something needs to be done. You can’t just sit here and watch the day fade, along with Vilkas’ life.

You slide off the alter, and as your feet hit the floor your knees buckle and you stumble.

The Falmer lived with the spiders. They must have had something to combat poison. You scuttle back into the cavern that the Falmer used as their living quarters.

There’s a fence at the far end of the cave where the Falmer kept their Charus herd. Dotted around are red yurts, and you search each one rifling through chests and boxes until you find what you were looking for. A potion of 'Cure Poison’. 

The weight of the bottle in your hands, and the splash of its contents as you run back to Vilkas, is comforting.

You carefully tilt the bottle and wash some of the potion onto the spider wound, watch how it fizzes over the bite and turns the inflamed skin a powder white. Then you pour the rest down Vilkas’ throat.

The temperature drops .

You hug yourself in an attempt to suppress the shivers that fight for control over your muscles, and you remember the yurts and the beds of fur inside.

It’s slow progress, but you manage to drag Vilkas off the stone alter and back into the main living quarters. There, you pull his body into a yurt and roll it into a pile of furs.

The lack of sound from the Nord causes you to check his pulse once again, and you watch the rise and fall of his chest just to reassure yourself that he’s still alive. But this action is also filled with dread. The longer you stare, the more you expect the motion to stop.

You tear your gaze away, knowing that to continue to fixate on it will drive you slowly into madness. Instead you busy yourself by tending to Vilkas. You wrap the fur tighter around his body, and when you remember the bubbling spring not far from where the Falmer lived, you take a pot you find discarded on a table and go and collect water.

Now that you have fresh water you rip up bit of cloth, dunk them in the bucket and dab them against Vilkas’ clammy forehead.

You fetch Vilkas’ armour and weapons and supplies, and pile them in the corner of the yurt, but you keep a tight hold of Vilkas’ bow.

There is nothing more you can do.

You sit in the doorway of the yurt with the bow leaning against your body. And you wait for Vilkas to wake. Or die. Whichever comes first.

The darkness grows.

There’s fog that lingers on the ground submerged in water. It might be your imagination but, as the blackness of the dark thickens, so does the mist.

Stop staring at things, you tell yourself. It’ll only encourage you to see monsters made out of shadows.

The wind howls around the cavern, up and down the tunnels. You’re reminded once again at how it sounds like a pack of wolves.

At the far end of the cavern you see what looks like the silhouette of a figure.

Your furious at yourself for letting your imagination take control.

Stare at the ground, you tell yourself.

So you sit at the entrance of the yurt, Vilkas’ bow clutched tight to your chest, and cast your gaze downwards.

You feel fingers upon your chin. They are rough and warm, and you catch the smell of earth and what might be blood.

Your heartbeat intensifies.

You look up, meet the gaze of Hircine.


	6. Dark Night of the Soul: Continued.

You aren’t the leader of The Companions. You are something worse.

You’re their advisor. The one they come to for ideas and counsel. You are meant to guide them. How can you do that when you can’t even guide yourself?

Hircine’s face is obscured by the stag head he wears. You can hear his breath rattling around in the bone mask, though you aren’t sure whether he breathes out of necessity or for effect.

Although it feels as if Hircine has reached into your chest and squeezes his hand around your heart, you meet his gaze.

Words are frozen in your mouth. What do you say to a Daedric Prince, a creature who could destroy you for no other reason except that they desired to?

Hircine looks down at you. The antlers on top of his mask span the length of his naked shoulders.

He steps backwards.

'You are no leader,’ he says, and when he speaks you hear the wild wind rattling through the branches of trees, and in your mind there’s one full moon in the sky and it is the colour of blood.

'You are a follower.’ The Hunter holds out his hand. 'Come follow me.’

There’s a fear inside you that branches from the back of your mind. This fear has been buried since the beginning of time. A fear not experienced since your ancestors were prey and knew nothing about Nirn. Like a poisoned tree, its roots sink deep into your brain, and with every branch that blossoms the word 'run’ gallops through your mind. 

'Join the hunt.’

Despite the fear, you are tempted by his offer. Hircine gives you the chance to become the hunter, not the hunted. That tree of primal terror could be pulled down, uprooted.

You lean forwards, about to stand.

You could become the embodiment of fear.

From behind you, Vilkas lets out a groan, and Hircine’s offer is no longer tempting.

Staying seated, you clench your hands around the shaft of Vilkas’ bow.

Hircine’s head tilts to one side.

'It does not matter if you do not come to me yet,’ The Hunter says. 'You will. Whether it be by the setting of tomorrow’s sun, or when Masser and Secunda rise together fifty cycles from this time.’

Like the hint of a breeze winding its way through the deep set roots of the forest, there is a whisper of amusement in Hircine’s voice, and you imagine that behind the mask, Hircine smiles.

And then it dawns on you. You know why Hircine is here.

'For now, I will take your companion.’

Your eyes widen, your muscles tense, and you reach for an arrow from the quiver upon the floor, just as Hircine’s form dissolves into the thickening fog.

Clumps of mist separate themselves and form into the shapes of wolves.

The wolves patrol the perimeter of the pool of water in front of the Falmers yurts. Their translucent bodies shimmer in the dark, like ignis fatuus in animal form.

Occasionally they spring towards your tent, their hackles raised and teeth displayed. When they snarl, ghostly spit flecks the floor.

You let loose an arrow and it zips through the dark, passes through one of the wolves. The wolf’s structure disperses like tendrils of smoke from a pipe, and then reforms inches away from its original position.

The creatures never stay too long near the yurt, before regrouping with whispered yips and snapping at each other’s legs. Then they begin the patrol again. 

It feels as though the marrow of your bones have turned to ice.

You grasp for a log discarded close to the yurt’s entrance, reaching out your hand when no wolf is near. For you fear their touch, knowing that should their ghostly forms meet with your tangible body, they’d rip your throat, tear your soul from your body and drag you to the Hunting Grounds.

With the cold setting into your body, it’s hard to focus on the Dragon Word for fire. You notice your nose feels rigid, your ears become two useless clumps of flesh causing pain either side of your head. The joints in your fingers cease to respond.

You cling to the word in your head as if it is a rock you hold onto whilst you drown in the frigid waters of the Sea of Ghosts.

'Come to me little one. Little creature. Little startled rabbit.’

Hircine’s warm voice floods your mind, and you snap your head around expecting to see the Daedric Prince standing behind you.

There is no one there.

No one.

No one but Vilkas who sits up in his bed of furs.

'Feel the teeth of the hunter around your neck. Embrace your death.’

The words do not come from Vilkas, and you know that Hircine still watches you.

Again, you grapple with the word for fire. Pull it out of your head, through your mouth and into the air where it takes on a life of its own and turns the discarded log into a fiery brand.

Then, on hands and knees you scrabble to Vilkas, hoping that the small fire will keep the wolves at bay.

***

The Nord sits as rigid as the statue of Ysgramor in Ysgramor’s tomb.

You rest hands upon his shoulders and try to push him back down into the furs, but he doesn’t move.

Vilkas’ eyes are open, but unfocussed. Beads of sweat have collected upon his forehead, but his skin feels as cold as a corpse.

You speak his name but get no response.

He doesn’t flinch as you wipe away the sticky strands of hair from his face and tuck them behind his ears. Instead he lurches forwards, as if he is about to rise, and fear heaves through your mind.

The wolves are outside the yurt. They howl and yap but keep their distance from the fire.

Your fingers dig into Vilkas’ bare shoulders. You tell him that he can’t go, that Farkas waits for him. You remind him the promise he made to Kodlak. And as you shake him and then put all your strength into pushing him down you tell him -

His eyes are the eyes of a wolf, a brutal yellow so different to his usual grey. Grey eyes that can be mellow and placid, but change to reflect the storm clouds over Winterhold.

You tell him he is stubborn. And stupid. And proud.

Then you ask him if he remembers yesterday. The dragon?

Vilkas breathes through his nose and his nostrils flair with every breath. He stares ahead, his chest thrust out and his shoulders back.

You pull the Amulet of Mara from the pouch on your waist, prise open his fingers and shove the talisman into his hand.

As his fingers follow the creases and bevels upon the charm, he continues to stare ahead.

The wolves howls increase. They drown out every noise in the cave, from the dripping water to the wind, until they are a cacophony of noise.

You know they call to Vilkas’ soul. And you shout out into the darkness that Hircine can’t have the Nord, that he’ll have to pass through you first.

In attempt to push him down again, you slam your full weight into Vilkas.

Thoughts collide through your head. This is your fault. You should have noticed earlier that Vilkas had been poisoned. You should have rescued Engar. You should have protected Kodlak. And before you know what you are doing your voice fills the dark once more. You shout above the howls knowing that, though you can’t see him, you have Hircine’s full attention.

You.

Everything is your fault.

You.

A trade.

You over Vilkas.

Hircine can take you.

The howls subside.

Vilkas goes limp, falls backwards, and like a tree felled by a storm, you crash onto him.


	7. The Rescued.

The grey smoke from the funeral pyre curls into the sky.

You sit on a grass covered embankment, your knees drawn up to your chest, and look down at Enger’s family gathered around the flames.

You can hear Engar’s widow sobbing. It’s a noise you don’t think you’ll ever forget.

His family don’t blame you. You wish they would. You long for their anger, because then you’d be able to focus on that, rather than your own stagnant emotion that sits heavy in your chest.

One by one, locals and family drift away from the funeral. You stay, feeling that’s it’s your duty to see it through, until the flames die down and nothing remains but ash. It’s the least you could do for Engar.

‘Do not blame yourself.’

You didn’t hear Vilkas approach.

You hunch your shoulders, fold your arms around yourself.

'It’s not your fault.’

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you rub a hand over them.

Your journey back from Chillwind Depths was made in silence. For that you were thankful. Since then you have managed to avoid the Nord. You’re not sure if you’re ready to answer his questions.

There’s trepidation that still hasn’t left your mind. You fear being cornered by Vilkas’ disappointment. 

You stand.

'You think Kodlak went through all those years without making a mistake? That there weren’t times he didn’t blame himself?’ Vilkas cups your chin with his calloused hands, lifts your head so that his gaze penetrates yours. 'Trust me, I can give you plenty of examples where the old man has made even Farkas frustrated.’

It’s not the reaction you expected, not from the one who had been full of scorn and labelled you 'New Blood’. Not from the one who had gone to Kodlak and challenged why you should be allowed to join The Companions.

'It’s hard being Harbinger. That’s why Kodlak chose you, and not I. He knew you’d bear the frustrations. If it were easy, every idiot in Skyrim would be vying for the position.’

Vilkas removes his hand from your face, slaps it on your shoulder and squeezes. 'You’re not alone,’ he says, and his voice is as soft as mist. You detect warmth in his accent, like a fire that beckons you away from the cold.

* * *

Engar’s wife is a round woman, with hair as brown as the leaves in Frostfall. The lamp light from her house reflects in the pools of tears that gather at the rims of her small, blue eyes.

'Thank you, for everything,’ she says.

You begin to protest but she interrupts.

'You did everything you could to save our Engar, and more. You’ve cleared out that cave, so that’s one less thing to worry about, and you brought him home to us.’ She dabs at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. 'Mara bless you just for that.’

Engar’s family stable your horses for the night, and his wife allows you to set up camp at the side of her house.

Vilkas’ sits scraping stubble off his face with the edge of a dagger.

The flames from the campfire warm your cheeks.

Now and then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch Vilkas looking at you.

'You have been avoiding me all day,’ he says and tilts his head to one side, raises his eyebrows.

Your hands are sweaty. You tell him you haven’t.

'Is that so? Then why does your face redden?’

You duck your head downwards, busy yourself by sharpening arrow tips.

Vilkas throws his dagger downwards. It hits the ground with a clunk and rests there, handle sticking up.

'We have been dancing around this matter all day,’ the Nord says. 'Like two New Bloods fearful to commit the first blow. What happened last night? Why am I still alive?’

Alive? You have no answers for that. Not definitive ones. Vilkas is alive because your care and attention to his wound thankfully worked. As for yourself. Hircine allowed you to walk away. You aren’t sure why.

Vilkas’ eyes narrow. 'Something happened. Something happened to you.’

A sharp pain comes from your left arm, like something has bitten into your skin. You clamp a hand over the smarting, squeeze the flesh.

You return Vilkas’ gaze. You don’t want him to realise you are keeping something from him.

'I dreamt,’ he hesitates. 'I dreamt that I was a wolf trailing far behind my pack. They ran deep into the forest and I was about to follow but then,’ he runs a hand through his hair and shifts his gaze downwards. 'I saw you, and you lit up the dark. You glowed as if on fire. And you told me not to follow the wolves, for it was a trap. I told you that I had to go, they were expecting me. I had to be the one to take the first bite from our prey. But you reached out to me, told me to stay, and that you would go in my stead.’

Words become stuck in the back of your throat. You cough, fumble with the tip of an arrow, stick the point into the flesh of your thumb.

You tell Vilkas it was just a dream.

Vilkas pauses shaving, then slowly nods his head. 'I trust you’re telling the truth. There’s no reason why you’d lie to me. Regardless, the fact remains, last night you saved my life.’

The Nord resumes his shaving.

'I am not sure how, but if I can, I will repay you. A Nord never forgets such an act, a member of the Companions, less so.’

The pain in your left arm returns. You turn away from The Nord, glance over your shoulder to make sure he’s not looking, and roll up your sleeve.

There’s a scar on your arm, and that’s where the pain radiates from. It’s faded, like you acquired it years ago. You don’t remember how you got it. The skin is puckered, like you’ve been bitten by something.

In the distance, a wolf howls.

Your heart quickens. Your hands tremble. You can’t get Hircine out of your head. You can hear his voice. Smell him, the scent of earth after rainfall. You remember how rough his hands had felt.

You squeeze the mark on your arm.

Vilkas curses under his breath. A bead of blood materializes on his chin beneath his blade, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Should you tell him? Would he understand the fear that lurked in the back of your mind and extended its dark tendrils so that they came to rest in the pit of your gut?

Would he mock you, think you were weak? That’s always a worry that is never far from your mind.

You can’t help but question Vilkas’ patience, his reassurance. His concern when you’d been attacked by the dragon. Where have these emotions sprung from and what is his interest in you? When did it start? When he saw you call forth fire, when he discovered you were Dragonborn? What does he think you are going to do, ascend the throne and rule all of Tamriel? If you ruled, would he be Emperor? 

You snort. Stifle a smile with the back of your hand. Vilkas?

He looks over in your direction.

The Nord’s eyebrows draw together.

Your gazes connect.

Vilkas’ attitude changed just after Ysgomor’s Tomb. His voice had softened. Not soon after he’d smiled. Perhaps it had nothing to do with being the Dovahkiin, but everything to do with, simply he’d grown to respect you.

You lean forwards. How to start. Where to start. Tell him Hircine hunts you. Simple.

You say Vilkas’ name.

Stop.

As Vilkas leans forwards and swishes the dagger around in the bucket of water, an amulet slips out from behind his rough shirt. It hangs around his neck, swinging backwards and forwards, and you realise it’s your amulet of Mara.

Breath catches in the back of your throat.

The pain from the mark on your arm intensifies. It feels as if fire consumes your arm. You grit your teeth.

The Nord looks up. 'Is something wrong?’

There’s a voice at the back of your head.

It sounds like Hircine’s.

It tells you.

Tells you that it will come for you.


End file.
